Just stars, and grassland –
           to stand on the limit of the world
           and then climb upwards.

Here is his tower,
           his staircase curled and vagrant
as any dream:
It is pictured
next to the cow.

How constant the constellations,
this city now wheeling beneath them.
Here is his quiet heartbeat.

He must have heard the cries of children
in his sleep,
their lowing.

In his tower,
you breathe lungfuls in
of sky. 

View this poem on The Disappearing »